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<title>Jonathan Sims is short. I don't take constructive criticism. by Pirate_Captain_Conan</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25247596">Jonathan Sims is short. I don't take constructive criticism.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pirate_Captain_Conan/pseuds/Pirate_Captain_Conan'>Pirate_Captain_Conan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, One Shot, Short Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, nothing bad ever happened. ever., platonic fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:01:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>924</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25247596</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pirate_Captain_Conan/pseuds/Pirate_Captain_Conan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>exactly what it says on this tin. Jon is shorter than 5'5' (I don't make the rules) and the archive staff bully him for it (it's teasing don't worry)</p>
<p>------</p>
<p>Jon wasn't short. He wasn't! He was average height and it was perfectly normal, so everyone could simply mind their own business and not mention how "short" he was. No, you do not need to bend down to "see things from his perspective", you just need to be a decent human being, for goodness sake.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Georgie Barker &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>212</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Jonathan Sims is short. I don't take constructive criticism.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jon wasn't short. He wasn't! He was average height and it was perfectly normal, so everyone could simply mind their own business and not mention how "short" he was. No, you do not need to bend down to "see things from his perspective", you just need to be a decent human being, for goodness sake. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So, imagine Jon's absolute betrayal, the cruelty behind this gag at his stature (that he had no control over, mind you) when Georgie- the woman he trusted more than anything to get him through his university years- got him an extension pole with a claw. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Why?" he stretched the sound, "What did I do to deserve this mockery, Georgie?" He definitely did not pout. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Exist." Georgie remarked, looking rather like that smug cat meme surrounded by knives. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martin was just trying to do his work. It was hard enough not knowing what you're doing, but at least he was trying, and it was getting very difficult. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thing making it difficult was the loud clangs and scraping coming from the breakroom. And the cursing. It was obviously Jon cursing- no one else would call someone (or something) a "wanton worse than Henry the eighth" like a theatre kid gone wrong- and at this point, Martin had the right to be worried. So, obviously, he walked over to the breakroom to see what was going on. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Jon? Jon, are you-" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He was stunned. Martin had found Jon standing- one leg on a chair, one on the worktop- reaching into the top shelf of a cupboard that held biscuits. A brief thought that he looked very attractive like this flashed through Martin's mind, but that's definitely not appropriate (this is a workplace, Martin. Stop being horny).</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Faster than humanly possible, Jon snatched the biscuits, threw himself off the chair, dragged it back to where it previously was, and glared at Martin. His face was stone cold, but his ears burned redder than hot coals. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You. Saw. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Martin nodded. He saw nothing, got it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Happy birthday, Boss!" Tim slammed a neatly wrapped box (obviously wrapped by Sasha, as Tim couldn't do anything neatly, but Jon felt as though wrapping presents was something she was normally bad at) down onto the mahogany desk. Jon gave his signature sigh and looked up at the intruder. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Tim, my birthday is next week." he murmured, knowing full well this wouldn't deter the brash man before him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, well, you know I just can't wait on these things. And I think you'll really love this present- it's exactly what you need." That scared Jon more than it should. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Unwrapping the box revealed a plastic step, with an image of a toddler using it to reach a sink on the front and a smiling mother. It was white with rubber green bits for grip around the base and the top. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tim's grin stretched from ear to ear, like the Cheshire cat but without the redeeming quality of being a cat. Small snickers came from outside the office, choked and cut off from hands muffling the sound. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Tim, I am going to hurt you." </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you sure you can reach?" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I assure you, I'm not afraid of hitting below the belt, and I have the perfect height for that thank you very much." </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"DAISY! DAISY COME HELP ME!" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"JON WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING UP THERE?!" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>To be fair, it was Basira's fault for putting the instant coffee he needed to survive up on top of the fridge. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely</span>
  </em>
  <span> wasn't Jon's fault for knocking down the chair (with the stool he was given and a very thick, sturdy book on top of that) he used to get up, and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span> wasn't his fault that he had a caffeine addiction, and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> could never be his fault for getting stuck on the fridge. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Daisy, can you please help me get down!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hold on, I'm taking a picture." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"NO DON'T TAKE A PICTURE!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Done, and sent." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fiiiine, can you hel- WAIT DID YOU SAY </span>
  <em>
    <span>SENT</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Loud cackling was heard from Melanie a few rooms along. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Stop laughing! Daisy, please help me- Daisy no, it's not that funny! PLEASE DAISY!" Jon's voice grew shrill and hoarse like he was crying, "NO DAISY DON'T LEAVE ME PLEASE!" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was the day before Valentines day and Jon was actually going to throw a fit. He Knew what Martin had gotten him (once again, not his fault, blame the big, insatiable eye entity for cursing him with curiosity and knowledge) and Knew where it was. There was but one simple problem. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He'd had the gall to put the chocolate on top of the cupboard. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>How </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare</span>
  </em>
  <span> he. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Mahhhhhtin!" Jon batted at his boyfriend's shoulder impatiently, "Mahhhhhhhhhhhhtin!"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"What, love?" he finally turned to Jon, smirking slightly but schooling his face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You know those chocolates you brought?" Jon feigned innocence, looking up with wide eyes and a slight smile that he knew Martin liked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What chocolates?" Damn his resolve. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I Know you brought some; please can I have them?" he tried again, hugging tight to Martin, sounding sweet as sugar and reaching on his tip-toes to pepper soft kisses on his jaw. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I honestly don't know what you're talking about, Jon. Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>you're OK? You know how your Knowing gets odd when you're sick." Martin's chest did an odd jerk as though he was trying to contain a sneeze, and very lightly breathed a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon let out the most exhausted groan and slumped against Martin. This was not fair. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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